


Someday My Prince Will Come

by AndAllForAPrettyFace



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-24
Updated: 2015-06-27
Packaged: 2018-04-05 22:58:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 7
Words: 10,858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4198245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AndAllForAPrettyFace/pseuds/AndAllForAPrettyFace
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From DAKink prompt:</p><p>'So, you’ve seen us fight. We’re expensive, but we’re worth it.'</p><p>The Inquisition is pretty hard up for cash right now so F!Inquisitor offers to pay Bull once they're done. Bull normally requires half before a contract and the rest afterward, but since the Inquisitor has nothing...Bull takes payment in a different way instead...</p><p>Non-con and dub-con are, well, expected basically! And also fine. Would really like to see an Evil!Bull since there don't seem to be too many of those around and a desperate!Inq who's just trying to get as much backing for the Inquisition as possible and who keeps their 'deal' a secret from the other members of the team.</p><p>Only squicks are scat and gore thanks</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. as coins slip through her fingers

She couldn’t even say what it was that made her say _Yes, alright. Agreed_. She couldn’t claim ignorance. He’d been pretty candid in that flirtatious remark about redheads, and he’d given her space to make her consideration. This wasn’t a snap decision or suggestions; this was a measured, calculated offer. The Iron Bull was a frenzy of blade and fury, but off the field, he was almost frighteningly reasonable. If you’d taken away the enormous horns, the eye patch, and the occasionally coarse turn of phrase, and if you’d thrown in a few lip-service prayers to Andraste, he could have been one of Papa’s advisors, the sort that she had watched from the sidelines for as long as she could remember.

The sort that Papa had teased her would one day make her a fine husband. “How like you that one, Evey?” he would chide her, if he caught her looking. And she would giggle and blush and go back to her reading or her prayers or her blade work.

That had been a lifetime ago. That had been before the sky was rent asunder and the people called her Herald of Andraste, a name which made her blush to even speak aloud. She wasn’t a holy saint. She was a dutiful child of Trevelyan, and it felt like blasphemy and presumption to call herself more.

She had learned quickly, though, that Herald or no, Inquisition or no, they had little, so very little. She had always grown up in comfort, not even knowing what that meant exactly, but she could see it now, from Leliana’s quiet, despairing prayers, from the untidy requisition desk and its harried messengers, from the smith that couldn’t even provide his own materials or craft quality pieces for the common soldiers. She had learned from her small bunk and small tent, as well as the fact that these were considered enviable accommodations. And now, out on the road, trying to do the right thing, trying to gather support, she was acutely aware of every coin in her purse, where as a child, she had always had enough to impulsively buy a packet of sweets or an interesting book on a walk through town.

Now, the coins slipped through her fingers all too quickly, and it cut to the bone with each one.

The horned giant, impassive and reasonable, regarded her through his one eye, waiting for a response. 

_Yes, alright. Agreed._

 

***

 

Close to two weeks passed. She wondered if she’d imagined the whole thing. She wondered if it was a hysterical fantasy she’d somehow dreamed up in the stress of the moment. The Bull hadn’t mentioned it since arriving, although he’d sometimes comment on the curve of her backside under the armor, in the same breath as he’d give her advice on her shield work. None of the men that Papa had given her as tutors would ever dream of being so bold in word.

She told herself that he brought it up to make her blush and stumble and miss her mark. She wouldn’t be tricked so.

Much to her surprise, Evelyn even found herself enjoying his company and his blunt assessments of the fledgling Inquisition’s strengths and weaknesses. He didn’t go out of his way to be rude, but he didn’t hold back from calling a spade a spade, and his clear, basso laugh came to make her smile a little. She appreciated his critiques on the organization. They needed clear critiques if they were going to grow in strength. And for a rough beast to have such a keen mind was so improbable.

She tried to be polite when he spoke of life under the Qun. Courtesy was as much of a shield as the one she held on her left arm. She knew that he knew her feelings on those religious fanatic savages, and she didn’t want to breed bad blood between them by exchanging vitriol. Evelyn told herself that Andraste had room in her heart for all creatures, great and small, sweet and savage. Evelyn told herself that the Bull was working with them against the evil in the sky, and that this, if nothing else, would surely earn him grace in the Maker’s eye. Evelyn told herself that despite his strange words, he was different, and that was good. _He_ was good, surely. He wasn’t like the other Qunari.

Maybe that was why, after a cautionary tale of a previous employer who tried to cross him—“she was pretty like you”—she blurted out a stupid question. “Do you offer all your employers the kind of traded services that you offered me then, Iron Bull?”

The Iron Bull grinned, showing his teeth, and he leaned in. Evelyn suddenly became aware of his hand on her arm – massive, easily enveloping her bicep. “Nah. Just the cute redheads, and even then, just the ones that I can take in a fight.”

 

***

 

“Keep your shield up,” Papa would urge her, watching her at practice.

Where Mama encouraged decorum, tact, grace, and devotion, Papa always insisted that all of his children would be able to defend themselves in battle. Evelyn obeyed him, first out of love and then out of understanding for the gift that he was giving her. He wouldn’t always be there for her in person; he refused to let that compromise her safety.

“Keep your shield up,” Blackwall encouraged her when they sparred.

She liked sparring with the gruff Warden; of all the men and women in that she’d met here, he put her at ease the most. He was kind, straightforward, and had something of that effortless authority and nobility of an officer, despite his roughspun Warden tunic and worn blade.

“If you don’t keep your shield up,” Bull commented idly, “some clever bastard’s going to knock it out of your hands and skewer you good.”

She laughed it off and tried again. She did her best to ignore the suggestive look that followed the comment.

 

***

 

The snow was white-grey blinding.

It froze her eyelashes.

It made her squint.

It left her wanting to curl up and die.

Evelyn took another step.

She was sure she was going to die.

It was getting darker.

It was getting lighter.

It was getting louder.

There were voices in the wind. She was going mad. She was dying. She must have been. There was no way she would survive this. She was dying. She was going to die.

Evelyn felt the ground meeting her knees.

And then arms lifted her up, effortless as if she were a newborn. She could see the silhouette against the white-grey blinding snow. She could just make out wide horns, the giant’s frame. “You’re not getting away that easy, boss,” she heard him say as she slipped into blissful blackness.

 

***

 

Evelyn couldn’t quite pin down the moment where she had fallen for Warden Blackwall, but the first time she had the thought, articulated into words, it made her giggle. He was older than her. He was coarse. But Maker, the way that a smile would touch his eyes, and the way he’d call her “my lady,” and the way he looked with the high peaks of Skyhold stretching out behind him on the battlements—it tied pleasant knots in her gut, tightened that quiet ache between her legs, and for all that she felt guilty about her distracted, wayward heart, she couldn’t help but think she deserved a simple little joy like Blackwall’s smile.

So when he told her—as kindly as he could, up there on the battlements, looking so handsome and noble and good—that it wasn’t meant to happen between them, something in her went out.

She told herself that it was best that it happened then, while it was still an early thing. Nip it in the bud, as it were. She had bigger things that needed her focus. It would hurt less in time. All these things, she told herself as she walked down the narrow stone steps.

He did care for her. She would have sworn he did care for her. She didn’t understand this.

Bull was at the bottom of the stairs, and she nearly walked into him, broad as a wall, terrible as a storm, sunset sunlight glinting on his massive horns.

“Boss,” he told her, without gloating or rancor. “It’s time to settle up.”


	2. as the shield is knocked aside

“Shield up, Evey,” Papa would urge her at practice, but there was no shield to grasp.

It felt so, so odd to be naked and just standing there. Evelyn couldn’t think of a time or circumstance when nakedness had ever been anything other than a transitional state. You were naked on the way from sleeping gown to dressed for the day. You were naked on the way to a hot bath. You weren’t just naked to stand there in the middle of the room, under the gaze of another. It wasn’t right.

Evey shivered. He had the curtains open, letting in the last of the dusk’s light. There was no one going to look in those windows, at the top of Skyhold, but she wished he’d let the curtains close, all the same. She didn’t want to look. It was like seeing what was going to happen was the same as being party to it. Better to just let it happen. Better to absolve herself of any responsibility.

Bull’s hands were so big, as they ran down her neck, shoulder, torso, buttocks.

She remembered Mama coming to her at bed, after practice one night, to give her a decorous massage and rub the tense ache of sword work from her weary limbs. She remembered—distinctly remembered—that being touched felt funny, and thank goodness it was only Mama doing it.

She remembered a fraction-of-a-second, blink-and-you’ll-miss-it flash of her older brother Paul, tumbling with Lord Aramon’s middle daughter, both fully clothed or close to, both so proper about it that she didn’t realize what she’d seen until well after, only a flash of hands under skirt, bare legs under petticoat, and head thrown back.

She remembered seeing the butcher in town appraising a healthy calf for the fat on its ribs, feeling along its flanks.

Bull _growled,_ a basso rumble through her belly. She could feel it, down to his hand on her thigh.

“Virgin,” he said. 

It wasn’t really a question. Evelyn nodded anyway. Of course she was.

“Ever play with yourself?”

Blood flooded her cheeks; somehow, that was the more shameful query. Evelyn sputtered, looking back at him, but her protest was cut off by an undignified cry as Bull’s massive hand clapped in hard against her bare backside. It _hurt_. She remembered seeing a man and women, smallfolks on her father’s land, and the man slapping the woman’s rear as he shooed her inside. She remembered Papa discreetly nudging their attention elsewhere. She didn’t understand more than knowing the word _spank_ , and that word never registered in her as something erotic, sexual, potent. It had only struck her, at the time, as a bit odd.

“Don’t hesitate, boss. Makes me think you’re going to lie. I’d hate that.”

He hadn’t taken his hand away from where he’d struck her, rubbing up and down the curve of her ass. It made the nerves sing between her legs, the same feeling as when Blackwall called her _my lady_ and smiled at her—but she mustn’t think of that—he’d told her no, and she was naked in her bedroom with the Iron Bull, and his hands were on her, dragging her naked body against him, and she could feel his hard manhood pressing against her back, through those slick silky trousers he favored when off duty.

He growled again. “I’m going to take that as a no, but I want to hear you say the words. Ever masturbate? Experiment? Know anything about what we’re going to do?”

She hated the whimper of shame she had to bite back. “You’ll have to teach me, won’t you?”

He chuckled—just one chuff of breath and voice. His hands on her came around front, stroked her hips and the soft spot in the joint where her legs joined them. “Not a nice way for a good noble girl to lose her cherry. Never mind that.” He applied a little pressure, just a little, and Evelyn was shocked to feel her legs trembling. Her legs were strong, capable of carrying her away from danger, capable of bracing the wall of her shield. It should have taken more than a finger-prick of pressure to make them tremble like this, and it shouldn’t have made her whimper again, like a helpless child.

_Maker, hear my prayer. Judge me whole. Keep me safe._

He applied a little pressure, just a little, and Evelyn _moaned._ She didn’t understand the sound her body was making.

“Just this once, boss,” Bull said as he stroked her, slowly, again and again, not even reaching as far as her sex. “I’m going to go easy on you, and I’m going to try and make this pleasant for you. It’s not going to happen again unless you really earn it, so I’d enjoy it while you can.

Evelyn couldn’t think. She didn’t understand what was happening. She couldn’t speak.

Bull’s hands cupped her waist, and thumbs squeezed gently at her lower back, and forefingers squeezed just slightly harder at the soft spot in her hip, and oh, that tightness between her legs burned white hot, and Evelyn felt her knees give way, felt Bull catching her and lowering her to the floor, felt the word _yes_ passing her lips as his catching her put even more pressure on that sweet soft spot.

He was laughing at her, she realized with another flush. “Begging for it already, boss? Needy thing, aren’t you? You noble girls are all the same.”

She wanted to protest at that. She really did.

One massive finger stroked her sex.

Evelyn sank back into his arms as Bull dragged her down to lie against him, insistent manhood still poking her back. He kept that one hand there, just the promise of future pressure against the juncture of her legs; the other hand caught hers and brought it up to her bare breast.

She remembered the first time a boy had looked at her as a woman, the first time she realized what his eyes not-on-her-face meant. She remembered feeling first shocked, then embarrassed, then powerful, just from the new swell of her body as it matured to womanhood.

“So this is how you play with your tits,” Bull grinned. “You’re going to want to remember this.”

Their hands moved together across her chest. Bull sucked hard on her fingers and squeezed them against her pebbling-hard nipples and Maker help her, Maker forgive her, that little bit of slick heat against touch-starved nerves felt better than anything she could have imagined. She was too surprised to resist as he showed her hands what to do, made her play with herself until her breasts were peaked and pert under his guidance, and only then, he pushed that threatening finger resting between her legs, in just a fraction.

Evelyn felt wet heat and sobbed quietly to realize that it was her own arousal, dripping down her legs as Bull carefully pushed her open. She heard high-pitched keening and closed her eyes in shame to realize that it was her own needy voice. She felt new pressure, pushing back against him, and had no where to hide from the fact that it was her own muscles willing it, trying to get closer to him, desperate for his touch deeper in her.

He acquiesced, moved in deeper, fractionally, and something in her snapped like a bowstring releasing; Evey cried out, sharp as thunder.

Hot breath on her neck. Bull was breathing faster. “There you go… tight little thing… mother never told you about this, did she? Can’t imagine noblewomen tell their daughters how to use their own bodies… ‘Here, little Evelyn, this is called your clit, and it’s the most useful fucking part of you…’” He laughed. “Oh, you feel nice like this, yeah…”

She couldn’t, couldn’t think. All semblance of decorum had left her; all she knew was that she needed him to keep touching her there, like that, with his big finger stretching her, with his callused skin stroking her, and wanton moans hung just past her lips, ashamed to be voiced but unable to be held back.

The pressure was starting to abate, and Evelyn sobbed.

“Beg me,” Bull whispered. “This is how this goes. Beg me to keep going.”

“Yes,” she sobbed, “please, Bull, don’t stop. Please.”

“Do you want it harder? Do you think you can handle that?”

“Oh, blessed Maker, yes, please.” Evelyn clenched her eyes shut, as if that would put any distance between her and her shame. “Please, harder.”

His manhood felt as solid and hard as steel pressed to her from behind, through silk and restraint, as his finger probed her more insistently. “And faster, too?”

“Please,” she moaned helplessly, “please.”

Bull laughed, basso rumble running through her body, and his finger sang inside her, and his hand-on-her-hand squeezed her breasts, and that white-hot burn between her legs burst into something blinding, the kind of heat and light that the sun gives off, and her whole body went rigid, clenching hard around his finger, and Evelyn was sure she was dying, and all she could think was _yes_.

Bull held her steady, lying there on the floor, limp and helpless. 

“You good?” he asked after what felt like a lifetime. “Then let’s get going.”

 

***

 

He didn’t let her look at it. She wasn’t sure whether he was trying to be kind, knowing that it would upset her or intimidate or threaten her. She wasn’t sure whether he was exerting his power, not letting her see what was going to be pressing her thighs apart in a moment. He told her to get on all fours, like a Mabari bitch, and to hold fast.

Evelyn’s arms were strong from sword work, and her legs were well-muscled and powerful.

He put just the barest hint of the tip inside her, and Evelyn _howled_.

This was impossible. It would never—he could never—

“Easy, now… fuck, I knew you were tight, but I didn’t think it was going to be this tight…”

Evelyn was rigid, every muscle in her body straining as he pushed in just a hair further. This would never work. He would never—

“Come on, relax. Clenching against me isn’t going to make you like this anymore. Here…”

His finger snuck in between her legs again. Despite her terror, Evelyn felt rebellious muscles respond to his touch as he stroked her, so gently and carefully, so good against the burn. The reprieve ended when he budged in further, and her body refused to be distracted any longer.

“Fuck this,” Bull said. “Sorry, Boss, but I’m going to have to do this the quick way if we’re going to get anywhere.”

Evelyn felt her gut drop and her eyes clench and her mouth form the words _no, wait_ before something massive burst inside her.

She remembered the guarded, discreet conversations that her mother had had with her about maidenly virtue, the gift she was to give her husband on their wedding night. She remembered the polite euphemisms, the shield of decorous language, as her mother described the perfect prince who would help her over the edge to becoming a woman. She remembered nodding. She remembered saying, _Yes, Mama_ , and having her hair tousled.

When she regained her senses, she realized that her arms must have given out, leaving her face pressed awkwardly against the cold stone, her backside pressed awkwardly into the cold night air, and her sex stretched and exposed as Bull—Bull—

Bull growled a basso rumble, thrusting into her hard, and that pleasant burn between her legs was turning into agonizing flames.

Somewhere, in between the gasps and cries and shameful moans, she managed three words. “No… too big…”

“Boss. I did warn you. Now be a good little girl and take it. Here…”

Fingers inside her again, joining massive manhood as it split her open. Evelyn sobbed, tears running down her cheeks and darkening the floor, but Bull knew what he was doing, and that finger on her clit was making her slick again, and it was making her gaze blur again, and when he brought her to her peak, she could almost pretend, for a moment, that this was something other than what it was as unfiltered joy engulfed her, howling into the floor and quaking helplessly in his arms.

“Don’t let your knees give out— _ungh—_ seriously.” Bull’s hips snapped against her. “Fuck, I’m close—oh, you’re not even— _aah—_ listening, are you—here—”

Evelyn felt the pressure between her legs abate— _Blessed Maker—_ felt the floor pulling away from her knees and hands and face— _oh, help—_ felt herself lifted, bent over the wall near the stairs, the rail— _no, please—_ and when that pressure returned, the wall ledge holding her up as she bent over it on tip-toe, there was no mercy of Bull’s fingers easing the way with pleasure, just the relentless burn as he took her, snarling and swearing and speaking words she didn’t know of his barbarian tongue.

His issue filled her, enveloped her world. Evelyn could process nothing in her mind except heat and pressure and shame. She closed her eyes, trying not to cry again.

“Come on, boss,” Bull said. “You did good. I’m going to help you wash, and then we can lie down for a bit, but I’m probably going to want another go in a few hours.”


	3. as she descends into the abyss

Evelyn was a quick student and always had been.

Bull liked that about her. She could tell.

He wasn’t horrible about it, for the most part, as much as she could judge. He came to her twice a month, like a landlord demanding the rent, and he would take his due as many times during that night as he could manage, and then she would have reprieve until the next time.

His fingers knotted in her titian hair, Evelyn wondered if it was possible to die from sex. With the Iron Bull, it certainly seemed that way.

He was good to his word; that first night had been the last time he’d been gentle with her.

She grew accustomed to the pressure of smooth ropes on her wrist as he tied her spread eagle, keeping her hands and legs from resisting him or responding to him, teasing her relentlessly as she lay there stretched out like a pointed star.

She grew accustomed to the burn of switch, whip, and open palm. Sometimes there were cuts, sometimes only bruises. He knew she wanted this deal kept secret; he was decent enough to afford her the modesty of keeping all injuries hidden, or at worst left bare where they could be mistaken for battle wounds.

She grew accustomed to being flung over every piece of furniture in her bedroom, hearing it groan under the urgency of their fucking.

She grew accustomed to the dribble of warm oil down the crack of her ass and the sound of it slicking his manhood before he penetrated her there.

She grew accustomed to his inserting _other things_ in her sex, perverse toys that let him watch her squirm without the distraction of his own pleasure.

She remembered Papa teasing her when she would look at this lord’s son, or that tutor’s smile. “How like you that one, Evey?” he teased. “Do you like him for a husband?”

She grew accustomed to the idea that she’d never have a husband, and that after Bull was finished using her, no one else would possibly want her.

 

***

 

In the weeks after the discovery of Blackwall’s secret, she found that mercy and kindness toward him was like a balm for her spirit. She couldn’t help herself, couldn’t help the bruises and the burning, but she could be merciful and kind to a man who had sinned and was ashamed and needed forgiveness.

She hadn’t expected that to open up old feelings, for either of them, but then one day, during one of their talks in his little makeshift workshop in the barn, she saw that gently flirtatious smile return, and she felt that drop in her stomach, and Maker, she wanted to be happy like that.

Strange questions buzzed in her mind. Was she still attractive, after being used so completely? If he took her to bed, would he be able to tell? Would he care? Would he be a gentle lover? What did his naked body look like, with all that hair and—

He kissed her, and she kissed him back, and for a moment, warmth and honest pleasure warmed her.

She could hear her father asking _How like you that one, Evey?_ and she even saw a little of her father in Blackwall’s kind, older face, which frightened her a little and aroused her a little bit and shamed from the degree of that arousal, but for the first time in months, she wanted something, from the depths of her soul, and he was calling her _my lady_ and emotion left his voice ragged, and Evelyn felt that shameful part of herself wanting him to drag her up to the hayloft, lie her down on the golden straw, and take her like a peasant girl.

He didn’t drag her up to the hayloft. And when she went back to her room that night, Bull was waiting for her.

“Sorry, boss. But I have dibs; I get you. You know that.” He chuckled. “Not that I’d be against sharing, mind—Blackwall’s good-looking in a sort of paternal, human, bear-like sort of way—but I don’t think he’s going to be up for a threesome.”

Evelyn said nothing.

“Unless you want to ask him. Do you want to ask him, boss?”

“No,” she whispered. Hot, embarrassed tears pooled in her eyes. It had been a stupid, idle fancy, all the more painful for being revived and snatched away.

“That’s what I thought. C’mere. I’ve got these cuffs I want to try on you.”

 

***

 

“You don’t get to make the rules,” he growled.

Evelyn clenched her eyes shut. She wished she were dead.

They’d come back to their tents after bringing down the dragon, stained with gore, and taken turns going to the creek to wash up. When she’d gotten back, Bull was in her tent, the stink of battlesweat and armor still on his body, the lust of dragonslaying still burning in his eyes.

She tried to say no. She was tired, aching. It was too public, here.

“Then you’ll just have to stay quiet, won’t you?”

She couldn’t, of course. Not enough. Months like this, and it still made her gasp and cry when he entered her.

When she cried aloud, he told her again to be quiet.

When she couldn’t stay quiet, he found a length of something silken in his pack and gagged her.

When that didn’t help enough, he undid the silken gag and pulled it against her slender neck.

Evelyn clenched her eyes shut. She was going to die.

With the silk at her throat, he was astonishingly gentle, feather-light touches, just enough to make her breathing funny, just enough to make stars prick her vision. Evelyn felt an odd calm washing over her, starting at the crown of her head, as the flow of oxygen slowed.

Then he ploughed into her, and any pretense of calm was gone again.

He’d explained it to her, at some point, why dragonslaying bred such lust in his heart, but it didn’t really make sense. All she knew was that bringing down something big and terrible made him want to fuck her like there was no tomorrow, and that he was always rough and primal in those instances—no toys, no strange positions, no need for creativity, just driving her down and down, using her like breeding stock.

She wanted to tell him to be quiet, too, but she didn’t have enough breath to speak clearly. He was grunting and growling as he built to a frenzy.

“Bull,” she whispered finally. “Please.”

He snarled. He fingered her hard; Evelyn felt an indignant shock, angry at the burn of pleasure. “No—Bull, no—”

“Shut up.” He thrust in harder, fingered her harder, and Evelyn knew she was slipping over the edge all too quickly. “You’re mine, boss. You know it. I know it. You don’t tell me what to do in here— _fuck_ me, that’s good—and you come when I make you come.

Evelyn tried to shake her head, tried to resist, but he tightened the silk at her throat, a feather’s touch of a warning, and Evelyn felt herself falling over the edge.

Bull roared into her. Her cry of climax was strangled, hoarse, awkward.

Cole was prodding the fire into life when they emerged, one by one. In a way, it was better like that. He’d had no illusions to begin with, merely gave them a nod and asked if she heard the grass when it sang. Evelyn said no, but she wished she did.


	4. as the drops leak from her cupped hands

Mama used to let her have a little glass starting when she was twelve, barely bigger than a thimble, to try wine at feast days—“So you don’t learn about drinking all at once, sweetling,” she said—but to be true, Evelyn had never much liked the taste of it. She could stomach it enough to have a few sips when someone was making a toast, but it didn’t interest her to have more.

“You need to relax,” Bull said. “You should come out for a drink with the Chargers tonight.”

Evelyn scowled. He’d usually been pretty good about not pushing the power dynamics between them outside the bedroom, but every now and then, there’d be a little throwaway suggestion that felt like he was testing her. It could have been too that he was just joking with her, free of malice. She might have been imagining it. Evey couldn’t say for sure.

He found her later that night, in one of the upper rooms, some papers spread out on a tavern table. He clapped down a mug of something that smelled foul. “We missed you, boss. Here, on me.”

Evelyn shook her head, avoiding eye contact. “No. Thank you, no.”

She felt a thumb under her chin, felt her face tilting up to meet his gaze. Bull didn’t say a damned word, just looked, just the quirk of a brow.

So she hadn’t been imagining it.

The first mug was the hardest. When he insisted on a second, she found she didn’t care. And the third, which she didn’t quite finish, she barely tasted at all.

“So you don’t learn about drinking all at once, sweetling,” Mama had instructed her.

So much for that plan—Evelyn had never tried more than a thimble-glass of wine at one sitting. When she tried to stand, her knees buckled like untested steel under a hearty blow.

“Aw, boss,” Bull laughed. “C’mere. Let me.”

 

***

 

Even with Bull half carrying her, it was arduous just to put the one foot in front of the other, and the stairs up to her bedroom were impossible. Evelyn laughed mirthlessly as she caught her full weight on the bannister.

“Damn, boss, you’re lucky it’s just me here. Oh, come on… hell of a clumsy drunk, you are…”

She let him carry her. It wasn’t that she didn’t mind, but she couldn’t walk straight. She couldn’t do anything. She couldn’t.

He was always astonishingly careful when he undressed her, as if damaging her clothing was beneath him. Her comfortable tunic and trousers pooled in the moonlight, near the open balcony door. Evelyn sighed, naked on her back, on the bedspread, waiting for whatever he decided tonight would be. The room was dancing around her, tilting irregularly, and the prospect of standing seemed like the worst thought possible. She waited. She waited for his bruising hands and stinging ropes.

It was almost a let-down when he just let himself down, naked next to her, and forced her hands onto his body.

Evelyn tugged listlessly at his manhood. When her clumsy hands grew tired of that, she bent down and took him in her mouth.

Bull gave a low, shuddering sigh. “Mm, boss… we need to get you drunk more often.”

Evelyn hoped he’d stay put and let himself come in her mouth—it would buy her a little reprieve, a little rest, a little chance for the world to stop spinning around her—but after a space of panting and growling like a beast, he pulled her away and put her on her back again.

The bed creaked as he thrust in, slow and steady. It really didn’t hurt as much as it usually did, Evelyn mused. It could have been pleasure. If she closed her eyes and didn’t think too hard, she could pretend that this was good. Her head fell back, and her mouth fell open.

The creature riding her ground to a halt. “What was that you said, boss?” he murmured with a dangerous grin.

She couldn’t have told him if he’d taken a switch to her. She looked up at him dumbly.

The Iron Bull _laughed_. He laughed, a basso rumble that shook her guts, and he started moving in her, oh so slowly. “You called out a name, boss. _Blackwall_. You have it bad for that poor old sod, don’t you?”

Maker’s mercy, had she really? “No,” Evelyn sputtered, heat rising in her cheeks, “I didn’t—I’m not—”

“Oh, shut it. I don’t care that you have a stupid crush.” His white teeth glinted in the moonlight above her. “But here’s what I want. Tell me about it.”

Evelyn didn’t respond. Bull thrust in, filled her to the hilt.

“Tell me about it. In your mind. How do you play it out?”

She _doesn’t._ She’s good. She was good…

“Boss…” Bull’s massive finger stroked her clit, between their joining bodies. “C’mon. It’s me. Tell me about it. How do you want him to take you?”

“In the barn. In the loft,” she choked. “Oh Maker, please—”

“There’s my good girl. Tell me more.”

Evelyn felt tears prick her eyes. What hurt the most was how easily the words flowed out of her, her tongue leaden and willing with the drink, her world spinning and burning as Bull rode her down, pleasured her, made her wish that it was someone else in her bed bringing her to her peak. “We’re kissing. He carries me upstairs. He sets me down in the hay. He’s gentle.”

“Of course he is. Does he strip you down?”

“No,” Evelyn said, surprised how confident she felt in the words. “I’m wearing a dress. Something plain. A peasant’s dress.”

“Adorable. And no smalls?”

“Y-y-yes— _aah—_ Maker—”

He was riding her faster now. “He hikes your skirts up and he screws you like a peasant slut.”

Maker, the world was spinning, and the burn between her legs was so very, very bearable, and Blackwall—Bull—his hand felt like lightning up inside her, and Evelyn moaned like the winter wind in a storm, like a peasant slut being fucked by a not-quite Grey Warden. “Y-y-yes—he—y-yes, he takes me—straw digging into my back—skirt up around my waist—he tells me I’m beautiful, and we have to be quick, and—and I feel so good in his hands—”

“Yeah, you do… _unh—_ ah, balls, get over here, will you?”

She acquiesced without thinking as Bull pulled out, bore her over the balcony, into the open night air. He lifted her like she was flying, slammed back into her with a feral laugh. “Like this? Does he fuck you out under the stars, boss?”

“Y-yes,” Evelyn choked, feeling Bull’s finger driving in, counterpoint to his manhood, white-hot and incredible. “He kicks open the upstairs door, and he picks me up, and he carries me over and slams me against the wall, right next to that open door, and—and his beard scratches my face, and—and he has me safe in his arms, and his mouth is bruising my shoulder, and my fingers are digging into his back, and he’s saying my name, over and over, and—and—and—”

She came harder than she had in months, weeping helplessly, and she cried out for him with love and lust, and she pretended that he was the one surrounding her, coming inside her, driving her down, down into inky, hazy orgasmic bliss, and she rode out the aftershocks of her own pleasure as he grew soft inside her.

Bull’s laughter echoed in her ears as he carried her back to the bed.

 

***

 

She didn’t fight him, the next time he brought her a drink. She was learning about drinking, and she was learning that sometimes, it was all you could do.


	5. as the pitiable air grows cloudy

“Circle of loathing, self and other, forever and again. Why does it hurt so much?”

Evelyn shuddered. Cole always unsettled her, even on a good day, even when his words were gentle ones. She tried to be kind, tried to convince herself that he was a good young man, but he wasn’t a man, and he wasn’t young, and she wasn’t even sure that he was good. She didn’t know. She didn’t know anything.

“Cycles and circles, like whirling blades cutting the air. Pity the air.” His eerie eyes peeked up at her from under his ridiculous hat. “I can help.”

Evelyn frowned. She stared down into her drink and tried to ground her thoughts on the cutting fumes of the liquor.

“I can. Please, I want to help. I want to be good.”

“Eyes up, Evey,” Papa told her at her blade work.

She looked at him, so scrawny and awkward and desperate to please, so ridiculous under his funny, wide-brimmed hat. “You can help? You mean you can make me forget?”

“Isn’t the same. Isn’t a clean cut. I’m slender and soft and sharp enough to cut away completely. Something like a The Iron Bull is too big. But I can muddy and muddle it. I can make it cloudy questions instead of clear pain.”

Evelyn shuddered. She didn’t understand him. She didn’t understand this.

He had come to her more frequently this month, the Bull had. She had a feeling that he was testing his boundaries, as the burdens of the Inquisition grew heavier on her shoulders and. She had a feeling that he’d broken her too completely for there to be any boundaries remaining. She had a feeling that even if there were boundaries, she was too tired all the time to enforce them. She had a feeling that if she put a lock on her door, he’d scale the walls and climb in through the window, just to put her in her proper place.

She remembered the party that Mama had thrown her when she’d turned sixteen and all the nice boys that had asked her for a dance, boasting of their worth. “I would climb to your bedroom window just to stand guard for nightmares,” was one of the more ridiculous claims that had been made that night.

Evelyn had giggled and given the boy a salted chocolate with her initials on it.

She sipped the heady liquor, savored the burn and the numbness it brought. She wondered if Bull would go away if she gave him a chocolate and a pat on the head.

“No,” she said to the strange creature with the funny hat.

“It’s the same thing,” he nodded to the drink. “You let that help you. Why won’t you let me?”

“No, Cole,” she repeated, and she took a more substantial sip from the cup.

 

***

 

Bull wasn’t alone when he came to her that night. “Krem?” Evelyn asked, utterly thrown for the first time in what felt like years. “Is something the matter?”

Krem shifted weight between one foot and the other. “You sure about this, chief?”

“My lieutenant sharing an evening with me and my main girl? Of course I’m sure.” Bull crossed the room, long measured strides and put an arm around Evelyn’s shoulders. She felt like a tiny child beside him. “Besides, if you want to go all technical on me, this is about payment. Could make a case for everyone in the Chargers having a go, but you know me. I like having something I can call my own. Well, my own that I can share with my favorite lieutenant.”

Evelyn stared at the floor. She’d never understood Krem, as much as she’d tried. She didn’t understand this.

“Chief, I dunno—if she’s not into it—”

“Going to give this girl a complex, Krem. C’mon. You trying to tell me you don’t want a piece of this?” Evelyn felt Bull pat her ass, rub possessively against her hip.

Krem scoffed. “Of course I want a fucking piece of this—” He looked apologetically at Evelyn. “I mean, excuse me, boss—but I’d need to be a bit daft not to want a piece of this—”

Bull squeezed her shoulders gently. “Boss? You up for this?”

Her mind and heart were empty. Alcohol made the lie easy. “Of course. Would you mind awfully getting me another drink, please?”

 

***

 

She made sure they got her good and drunk. When they did—it only felt a little odd, at first. Four hands on her instead of two. Two bodies for her to reach out to instead of one. After the strangeness of Bull’s enormity for so long, the strangeness of Krem’s body, sharing the same bodily space, didn’t even register.

In another lifetime, Evey reflected as Krem pulled her to the floor atop him—in another reality, she mused, feeling along the leather and ivory and she didn’t know what else that thing was made of, that Krem had strapped to himself and was using to sink into her sex, he would have been a good lover, a kind lover. She could have welcomed him. She would have been happy to bend down, straddling him, touching him, making his breath quicken.

She felt the Iron Bull kneeling behind them. She felt oil dribble down her backside.

She knew that she mustn’t cry. Bull wouldn’t get mad, wouldn’t shout at her, but she knew that she mustn’t cry.

She’d thought she was used to this, how full it felt, for Bull to be inside her. Now, penetrated twice, she hated herself for even having voiced that thought, even only to herself.

She was glad she was blindingly drunk for this, drunk enough that her vision was a semi-useless, semi-grey cloud, drunk enough that she prayed she’d remember only fragments by morning. She was drunk enough that she couldn’t manage to string two thoughts together right now, but if she could have registered what was happening to her, really thought about it clearly, it might have broken her. Absurdly, she thought of Cole and his stupid hat and his stupid offer to help, to make things muddy. It was as good a thing to focus on as any, she supposed.

“That’s the good one you’re wearing, yeah?” Bull asked Krem as he slowly sank in fully. “The full feedback one?”

“Uh-huh,” Krem grinned, thrusting up in tandem. “Takes a bloody month and no shortage of lyrium for Dalish to recharge the damned thing. So worth it, though.”

“I bet.” Bull slapped her ass, and Evelyn jerked at the contact, almost feeling it, through the haze. “You should be flattered, boss. Krem doesn’t pull out the good strap-on for just anyone. Only the most Inquisitive of Inquisitor-types.”

Evelyn closed her eyes and pretended that Krem was a lover she’d chosen. She pretended he was one of the suitors who had awkwardly praised her at her sixteenth birthday. She pretended that he was caressing her gently, sinking up into her because he loved her.

“I think I like sharing,” Krem admitted, face slicked with sweat, giving a breathless little laugh.

“Atta boy,” Bull chuckled. “We’ll have to find a nice Vint girl to split next time.”

“Blow me.”

“Busy at the moment.”

It was like she wasn’t even there, Evelyn thought dimly. She was nowhere. She was nothing. She didn’t need to understand what was happening, because she was somewhere else entirely. She was somewhere in the grey cloud, away from it all. She was safe.

Bull nipped her ear. His big hands closed on her breasts, covering her chest completely as he kneaded at her flesh. “Play with yourself, boss. I want Krem to see how pretty you look when you come.”

He was dragging her out of the cloud and back to earth. Evelyn whimpered an affirmation. Her trembling hands shivered into her sex. She tried to be somewhere else.

“You can do it. Just think of your favorite fake Warden—she’s got a thing for him, Krem. It’s really pretty cute. Go on.” Bull was twisting her nipples, and Krem was forcing her thighs apart, and Evelyn felt certain she was going to be ill and die of shame, but eyes up, shield up, she had to meet this head on, for there was nothing else to be done.

She closed her eyes.

Krem was watching her with a shy, hungry grin when she came down from the high of it. Evelyn managed a pretty smile for him in return.

He could have been a good lover for her, in another world.

Alcohol muddied the moment. She didn’t remember when Krem finished or how he left.

She tried to slink back to her bed, through the spinning world, through the hazy cloud, but Bull’s grey hand closed around her wrist. “We’re not done yet,” he said firmly. “Went easy on you for Krem’s sake—he’s a bit of a slowpoke, bit sentimental—but now we’ve got a little privacy and can enjoy ourselves properly, eh?”

Evelyn nodded.

It was a long night.

 

***

 

Cole found her in the morning, hunched over breakfast, sleepless circles under her eyes, hair a mess, back bent. “Circle of loathing, other and self, again and ever again. Can I help yet?”

“No,” Evelyn whispered.

“Wait,” she added after a moment.

“Would you get me another coffee, please?” she finally managed.


	6. as the dawn will come

“Tomorrow’s the day,” said the Bull. “Midday, we’re gone.”

Evelyn blinked down the bed at him. He was crouched at the baseboard as if it were strategic cover.

The time since Corypheus’d defeat and their aching but victorious return to Skyhold—minus one Master Solas, whose actions and motivations Evelyn still didn’t understand and expected she never would—had been eerily messy in her mind, in motion but in relative quiet. Moments floated like particles suspended in water, drifting and billowing but never quite achieving movement that registered as movement.

Even now, even here, she was courteous. “Are you certain? Josephine’s party is in two nights; I’m sure she’ll be sorry to miss you.”

“C’mon, boss – the Iron Bull knows bullshit. We had a job to do, we’ve done our part. We’re not heroes to be celebrated. Besides, we can do the party part for ourselves.” He sloshed something into a tumbler for her. “Drink?”

Evelyn closed her eyes. Tomorrow. She’d be free tomorrow. She’d watch them from the high walls of Skyhold.

When the knots tightened around her wrists and pulled her to the bedposts, it almost felt bittersweet. Freedom was visible over the horizon. Morning after a living nightmare was visible with the dawn. She didn’t care what horrible things Bull planned to do to her tonight. She could stand it. She’d taken down Corypheus. She could withstand one more night of pain and humiliation. There was nothing more he could do to her.

Evelyn closed her hands around the ropes, hoisting herself up on the mattress, giving herself a little piece of stability and space.

She was almost impatient with him to get it over with, as he slowly licked down her bared form, suckling at both nipples, teeth scraping her belly.

Sensation between her legs, hot and wet and unfamiliar—Evelyn jerked up uncertainly to see Bull’s horns lowering as Bull’s face dipped between her thighs. “What are you doing, Bull— _Bull_ —”

Hot pressure, wet tongue and firm finger, prised her open and smoothed against her clit. Evelyn’s eyes widened as helpless, shameful moans leaked out of her lips. She could only remember him pleasure her in white-hot spikes that penetrated her like throwing knives, sharp and invasive. This was soft, sensitive, impossibly gentle, impossibly good. Evelyn felt her hands shaking helplessly on the ropes as his mouth played with her. “Bull…”

He rumbled his basso growl, his mouth there between her legs. Evelyn felt it vibrating in her sex and bit her lip as she whimpered for more.

She didn’t want this. She didn’t want to be enjoying this. This wasn’t how it was supposed to work; it was simpler when he was horrible to her, and she could simply hate him and hate herself. She didn’t want to have the thought of _It feels so good_ followed by _and I’ll never feel this again._ It disgusted her, the thought that she would miss anything about this sordid arrangement.

Bull pulled his mouth away but kept his finger there, gently playing. “Yeah?”

Evelyn whimpered. Her grip on the ropes was faltering.

“I’m going to make you beg,” Bull promised with a wicked grin. “And I’m not gonna give you your release until you tell me how much you want me.”

Her arms shook. Her fingers grasped.

Bull lowered his head again.

Prolonged pain, Evelyn had learned to accept. She had accepted it with her first bladework lessons— when she would complain after her early lessons that everything hurt, and Papa would tell her that hurting was part of how you grew—and with her first true battle—when she would learn what it meant when her teachers cautioned her that real foes wouldn’t pull their punches—and with the mark’s embedding in her hand—when she thought that the whole of her arm, shoulder to fingertip, was on fire for the initial agony of it—and with Bull in her bed—stretching and humiliating and laughing and groaning, all the large and petty torments he inflicted on her since he had first come to her bed.

She could deal with prolonged unpleasantness. She’d grown strong dealing with prolonged pain.

Nothing in her little life had prepared her for this kind of prolonged pleasure. Evelyn wept on the edge of release, trying to grind down against the Bull’s face, trying to make him go faster.

Hot breath teased wet flesh as he pulled his mouth away. “Say it, boss,” he whispered. “Tell me you want it.”

His slow, sweet finger was a beautiful burn on her clit. “Yes,” she choked out helplessly, “I do.”

Bull shook his head. “See, you say that, but you don’t really sound it. Disappointing.”

Lips and tongue and finger and fierceness tore into her again, going faster— _yes, oh Maker, please yes, Bull, don’t stop—_ before slowing to a crawl again— _no, no, please, Bull, don’t stop, please don’t stop—_ and Evelyn bit back whining frustration as his basso laughter rumbled between her legs.

She was too tired for this. She could have slept for a week after the great battle, and she still would have been too tired for this.

“I want it,” she bit out, angry and helpless. “Maker’s breath, Bull, please make me come—I want to finish, let me finish—”

A space of hot breath. “How, boss? Tell me real specific-like; I’m a bit of a brute and might get it wrong otherwise.”

“I don’t care,” she whimpered as his finger played in her, agonizingly pleasant. “I don’t care, I don’t, just let me come—it feels so good, too good, please don’t stop, just get me off—with your finger, mouth, manhood, I don’t care, I just want it—I need it—”

His finger played faster but not fast enough. Evelyn bucked against him like a whore, breath unbearably hoarse in her own ears. “Who’s that you need, boss?”

“You,” she choked, “I need you, Bull, oh Maker, I need you—I need you, _I want you_ —don’t stop—please, I need you—”

Lips and tongue and finger and fierceness drover her to the peak and sent her shrieking over the edge. Bull’s clever tongue and stolid finger kept pulling her back and pushing her over again. She couldn’t have kept a tally on how many times he brought her to her peak if she’d tried. Her mind was empty, helpless, incapable of anything except the purest orgasmic bless she’d ever known.

He kissed up her torso again.

When he slipped inside her, it was usually pleasure and pain mingled; he was too massive to be anything less. Tonight, after an agony aftermath of unending orgasm, it was exquisite, beyond either pleasure or pain, some new sensation all together. Evelyn felt her slickness mixed with Bull’s saliva dripping down her thighs as he thrust home, groaning, fingers clenching.

The ropes burned against her wrists. They were the only things keeping her in place physically, and they were the only reality that were keeping her in place mentally.

Bull drove her down, down into the mattress, swearing hoarsely in Qunlat as he drove himself up into a frenzy – panting breath, rolling sweat, cheeky grin, and burning pressure.

“Tell me, boss— _fuck,_ yes—say it again, let me hear it— _ungh_ —again.”

“I need you,” her lips mumbled like a mantra. “I need you, Bull, I need you, Bull, I need you—I want you—Maker, yes, I want you—”

Bull roared into her, seizing her hands by the ropes, stretching her like a wretched thing on a rack and jamming up into her. They caught their breath, coming down from it together, and Bull didn’t bother pulling out, falling asleep on top of her, in her, so that when he woke again before the dawn, hard and hungry once more, he’d be ready to go, still slick inside her.

 

***

 

She didn’t stand at the high walls of Skyhold to watch the Chargers departing at midday. She didn’t stand for most of the day, in face, limbs and sex aching.

She wasn’t quite sure how Cole snuck into her room, let alone with a tray—a basin of hot, rose-scented water, a pile of clean washcloths, a potion for the pain, and what appeared to be a handful of pilfered little cakes from the kitchen. He deposited them quickly at the bedside, within easy reach, and he said something nonsensical about springtime being the cruelest time, and then he was gone again.

Evelyn cleaned herself as best she could, without rising from the bed.


	7. as winter thaws

Evelyn was shyly pleased to see that most of her allies and friends would choose to stay with the Inquisition. Cassandra would be departing soon, of course, to sit upon the Sunburst Throne, and dear Vivienne would be returning to a more civilized playing field than the one the Inquisition offered, and Varric loved Kirkwall too much to ever stay away from it for good, but there were enough familiar faces in the weeks that followed—enough companions that still found her worthy— for her to begin to feel at peace.

She wondered whether Blackwall would ever make good on his passing fancies of joining the Wardens for true.

In vain fancies, she imagined—

She blushed and moved past those vain fancies.

Cole kept following her, which she tried her best to appreciate, no matter how he unsettled her. He kept bringing her little pleasantries, sweets and scents and simple gifts. “I’m not trying to court you,” he helpfully clarified once, when he delivered one package. “But you need to smile more, or people will be sad.”

 

***

 

She did start to smile again, eventually. She meant to thank Cole for that, but she could never quite find him to say so.

 

***

 

Blackwall was just around the corner. She could hear his voice, muffled. She could turn that corner. She could smile at him. She could ask if he would do her the honor of taking dinner with her. She could do all sorts of things. All she had to do was step around the corner.

Evelyn’s heart was pounding in her chest. She had to hold herself tall, be a good daughter of Trevelyan—or whatever was left of herself as such. She knew it didn’t matter to him—wouldn’t matter to him—but even now, even after everything, she would comport herself with propriety, even as much as she was used goods, even when her heart was in her throat.

She could hear his voice, right around the corner.

And she heard another voice. Josephine, with her quiet, pretty laugh.

And she heard sounds of contact, physical contact—fabric brushing fabric, flesh brushing flesh, mouths coming together.

And she heard Blackwall say _my lady_.

And she woke.

 

***

 

Blackwall was just around the corner. She rounded it, decisive as she could be, and greeted him.

“My lady,” he said genially. “I’d hoped you’d come and see me. I wanted to talk to you about something important.”

Her heart was in her throat.

And she heard the words _The Wardens have accepted_ and the words _the Joining_ and the words _departing soon_.

And she woke.

 

***

 

Blackwall was just around the corner. She rounded it.

He met her eyes briefly, nodded, and he moved away, the way you would move away from a dog that was dangerous or diseased.

And she woke.

 

***

 

Dreams tormented her, even on her good days, leaving her sleepless and listless and confused. Dreams stole the sense from her. Some mornings, they left her as groggy and lost as she had been the mornings after she had shared her bed with the Bull.

She just wanted to wake and stay awake.

Dream-robbed sleepless nights were probably why she barely noticed when Blackwall nearly ran into her—or she ran into him—she wasn’t really sure which—rounding the corner at the bottom of the north tower stairs. “Fine ally I am,” he said, “trying to bloody a pretty lady’s nose.”

Pretty, he said.

Evelyn swallowed and waited for a moment, but she didn’t wake.

 

***

 

Evelyn couldn’t bear for them to go back to her rooms—not after all that had happened there— and Blackwall seemed dubious at the prospect of their going back to his barn, so they compromised after dinner with a walk along the battlements. “I hadn’t been sure,” he said plainly, awkwardly. “I thought the idea of something—us, I mean—pleased you, but it seemed like you were divided on the idea. Suppose I ought to have waited until you didn’t have the weight of the whole damned world on your shoulders.” 

Evelyn blushed. Mama always told her that she blushed prettily, which was a mercy, because she blushed often.

“I was busy,” she admitted.

It sounded better than _I was serving as a brutish mercenary’s sex toy, because I’m apparently good for little else._

He drew her close and stroked her cheek.

“And now?” he asked. “Now that you’re not busy, my lady, does that idea still please you?”

Evelyn swallowed and waited for a moment, but she didn’t wake.

His beard scratched and tickled as he kissed her, slowly exploring her, but she didn’t mind. She couldn’t even enjoy it fully. She didn’t want this moment to end. She didn’t want another cruel dream that left her gasping and panting.

“But I made you wait,” she stammered, when they broke apart.

Blackwall snorted. He was drawing her back into a shadowy corner, just him and two walls and an awkward little bench there, out of sight of the rest of the world. “The best things in life are worth waiting for, my lady. I’ve learned that, if nothing else.”

His hands slowly, gently smoothed down the sides of her body. Evelyn had to actively resist the urge to throw herself upon him like a wildcat, grinding her sex against the hard, corded muscle of his leg. She shivered as he touched her, so gentle and careful and sure. Maker’s mercy, his hands were so good on her, so strong and good.

“Maker’s mercy,” he murmured, stroking her gently through the silky shimmer of her tunic, “you are more than worth waiting for my lady. Although I don’t know that I could wait much longer, if you’re not planning to send me away.”

Evelyn blushed again, but there was a smile in it. “But we’re—we’re out here—” She looked around. “Someone will see…”

“They won’t,” Blackwall promised. He had opened the top two buttons, closest to her neck, and was nipping gently along the open skin there. “It’s just you and me here, my lady. I promise you.”

She mewled plaintively as he stroked along the curve of her breasts. She was so hungry for this, so ready.

Was that her, though? Bull had made her like this. Bull had taught her to keen and beg and degrade herself. Was she only ready for this because of what he had done to her first?

“I’m not a virgin,” she confessed weakly as he reached a big hand inside her gaping tunic, to feel at warm flesh.

“Neither am I,” laughed Blackwall, squeezing gently, carefully at her waist. “You think I care about that, my lady?

Evelyn released a throaty, needy whine that she wasn’t aware of having held back. Her fingers flew to his trousers and started unlacing where she could feel his erection pressing for freedom. Her hand fixed on it, pumped up its length, and Blackwall moaned, partially collapsing on her, on the little bench in their little corner of the world. “ _Maker_ , Evey… you feel so damned good… how I had the patience to not take you before now, I'll never know, oh...”

When he recovered himself, he bodily lifted her, carried her further into cover—one of the broken old rooms, half a heartbeat from them—and shakily set her down. 

There was nothing soft in the room, but there were dusty, empty tables and boxes, and Evelyn pulled him toward her, backing up until she was pinned between a table and his impatient manhood.

“Evey—!” he gasped and then swore in Orlesian as she took him into her mouth, tongue and lips and saliva and pressure, laving against the shaft with all the love and breath in her. His knees trembled as she pleasured him, one hand bracing himself on the table, the other knotting in her pretty red hair.

“Stop that,” he finally managed, pulling out with a shaky laugh, “or I’m not going to be able to do this properly.”

Evelyn rose, her movements hesitant and clumsy with lust. That was what it was, after all—Maker help her, she lusted for this man as much as she loved him. She wanted his body as much as she wanted his heart. She was a miserable sinner, unworthy in the Maker’s sight, and—

Blackwall lifted her up and lay her back on the table and sank into her sex, pulling her tight.

 _How like you this one, Evey?_ Papa used to laugh, and oh Papa, she liked this one very much indeed.

She hadn’t allowed herself to think of it for months, how Blackwall reminded her of her father—an image of strength and protection and kindness—and she didn’t dare voice it, but he was good, even fallen from grace, just as she was, and he cared for her, and he’d keep her safe.

Between thrusts, he was moving her legs—out wide—and then up—and now up over his shoulders, lifting her hips, and that sweet pressure felt so good, so impossibly wonderful, like this was an entirely different act than what she had undertaken with the Bull—like it wasn’t even under the same classification of sex. He was reaching down to where their bodies joined so that he could please her better, but she barely even needed it—just listening to his voice— _I love you, Evey, my sweet girl_ —and the barest flick of his sword-strong fingers—and she was tumbling upward, exultant and helpless, keening out victory and reclamation and love.

She watched through post-orgasmic bliss as he took his time finishing, building his pace slowly, playing with her, studying her with all the love and intent that was in him, whispering protestations of devotion over and over, and when he hit his peak, he cried out as if he’d been run through, spilling helplessly inside her and sinking weak-kneed against the table when he was through.

Evelyn loved the way his face looked, in that moment of surrender.

Evelyn waited to see if she would wake.


End file.
